December calendar 2014
by I'm Nova
Summary: Happily answering this year too Hades Lord of the Dead's challenge of Awesomeness! A prompt a day. As such, expect anything. Though this year I might be less punctual than in years past, I apologize in advance, real life gets in the way.
1. Punch to the jaw

_A.N. First of all, thank you to Hades Lord of the dead for organizing this challenge! Though this year I might be less punctual than in years past. For these of you who don't know me yet, I'm a fervent believer in Johnlock so that might find his way in sometimes. Flames will be used for the Bunsen burner. Today's prompt comes from Stutley Constable - A punch to the jaw. I've spent the past year in a BBC mood, so I suppose it shows...not sure if I should be sorry about it. _

Lestrade would have sworn that doctor Watson was the even tempered one. And then...

To be fair, there was alcohol involved (though not much). Lestrade had invited the good doctor to the pub, which was packed full of policemen. Then again, the doctor was almost a man of the law himself with how often he'd helped them, and after being patched up subsequently to a particularly surprising case, the inspector had moved the doctor from acquaintance to friend.

In all honesty, he'd have invited Holmes too (he owed the man much more than a pint), but the detective was happily experimenting away and wouldn't have liked the interruption. So here they were, both nursing a drink, and with Watson enquiring politely about the missus, when someone came up to them.

It was the youngest of the inspectors (younger than Hopkins, even), newly promoted and not a little arrogant. Lestrade didn't like him much.

"Lestrade," the man greeted with a much unneeded vehemence, "you're the one, right? The one with the consultant. I say to you, be careful. Be very careful. You might find out that he's involved in the crimes he pretends to solve."

Before the older and much wiser inspector could explain that he was certainly not the only one 'with the consultant', as at least a third of the people here had cooperated with Holmes (though it was true that he'd been the first to accept Holmes' help), or just tell the idiot to go away, Watson had sprung to his feet and acquainted his right fist with the dunce's jaw, hissing, "Repeat it." _If you dare_ was very much implied.

The youngster had blinked in shocked surprise, massaging gently the offended part. "What?" he'd uttered, uncomprehending. Thank God someone noticed and came to lead the moronic boy away, while he whined still, "What did I say? _Nobody_ can be that good."

The doctor, who had seemed ready for a honest-to-God brawl, had deflated immediately and sat down grumbling, "Sorry Lestrade but I'm not sorry for doing that."

The inspector shrugged. "He was decidedly out of line, I can't say that he didn't deserve what he got. Though I thought that you were a much more patient sort, doctor. It's a pity that Holmes couldn't come tonight, though. Once he got instantly deduced the boy would be forced to understand that yes, our friend is just _that_ good."


	2. Freezing

_A.N. Today's prompt comes from the greatly encouraging KnightFury: Freezing. I hope I did it justice my dear!_

I don't care much for long stake-outs as a rule. Long stake-outs the thirteen of December, with night fast approaching and snow falling and piling up around and upon us, trying to change us into snowmen, I care even less. But I wasn't about to complain when there was nothing to be done about it.

We were following a kidnapping case, of a young girl in fact, and while Sherlock had deduced the guilty man, he hadn't deduced – not enough clues – where he might keep his prisioner. So we were waiting for him to lead us to her.

We couldn't simply sick the police on the man, because while there were abundant proofs of his guilt for a logical mind, there were almost none for a court. If the man stood obstinate in his claim of innocence we risked he'd forego going to the girl's hideout and hence cause her death by mere neglect. And we'd still not be able to see him punished for his heinous crimes. So this was the only solution.

I am much more suited to deal with excessive heat than excessive cold, as Afghanistan proved, and couldn't help but wish bitterly for a fire (out of discussion, I knew) or some other way to fight the chill more effective than the blanket and coats we had. I was justified, though: the windows we were supposed to spy our prey from were obstructed by icicles, and I was on my way to becoming one myself!

Looking in to see the devious man enjoying a fire and a hearty meal, I couldn't help but feel the tiniest bit like the little match girl of the Andersen fairytale – without even a box of matches to warm myself with. I scolded myself silently but harshly: this was not the moment for self pity.

I hoped to God that our quarry would move soon, or at the very least before we developed frostbite. I, for one, would probably be a less than effective tail, as my leg was protesting against the climate and activity – or lack of it – somewhat fierce.

I should have stayed home and saved myself the trouble, but that was unthinkable. Not only because the victim could be in need of my own brand of professional help too, though of course we hoped such was not the case. But simply because leaving Holmes on his own to face potential danger wasn't something I'd willingly do. Certainly not because of a little cold. The temperature might be in the negative figures, but I wasn't to be deterred.

Holmes' occasional look, grateful for the company and yet silently concerned for my welfare, was enough to warm at the very least my heart anyway. I couldn't ask for more.


	3. Blind dates

_A.N. Today's prompt is from Catherine Spark: Holmes and Watson set each other up with blind dates. I probably failed utterly at this, but that's what happened... _

"You've never dated anyone since I've known you, Holmes. Or attempted to, even," Watson remarked a quiet night, quite abruptly.

"I've never dated anyone period. As you should know, I'm not a man to give into sentiment or endure an illogical creature by my side," the sleuth replied with a shrug.

"Well, maybe you should. Attempt to, at least. Before someone starts to think that you're so uninterested because you truly should be comdemned according to the Labouchère Amendment," the good doctor suggested, a frown of deep concern marring his features.

"And who would the police go to if they arrested me?" Holmes queried haughtily. "And above all, who would I date if I even agreed with you, my friend? You know that my social life is somewhat lacking, and I'd deem highly unprofessional to try and woo a distressed client. Maybe a murderess is the option you'd suggest?" he snorted.

"If that's all the problem it's easy resolved, Holmes. Let me set you up. _I _do have a social life," Watson proposed with a smile.

"Who with?" the detective inquired, clearly distrustful.

"Let it be a surprise. I promise that I'll do my best," the doctor affirmed with a boyish grin.

"I'll agree only if you agree to the same. One date with a woman of _my _choice," the sleuth declared, final.

"I'm a respectable widower, and you've just admitted to not knowing any women," Watson pointed out gently.

"I'll find a way," Holmes replied, with a half-smile, which should really have worried his biographer.

"Oh fine. How can one date hurt. In the interest of fairness, you'll keep the lasy a surprise too, I presume," the doctor unsurprisingly cawed in.

The day was fixed, the engagement kept (Watson had said that there'd be a penalty if it wasn't, and Holmes had agreed – surprisingly gleeful), and the following day saw both man back in their abode at 221B.

"A musician, Watson? What you were trying to set up was not a romantic couple. I believe that the word you were searching for is 'ensemble'. And while I'm sure that she's proficient in her art, I couldn't talk of anything else with her. When I mentioned our most recent case, she blanched and _blinked _at me. She couldn't even reply," the detective complained loudly.

"Holmes, our most recent case was the one with the dismembered bodies. Did you really think it was an adequate matter for polite conversation? On a _first date_?" the good doctor replied in mock exasperation, raising an inquisitive eyebrow, but not without fondness.

"Cases are my life, Watson. If I can't even talk about them why would I saddle myslef with a constant female companion?" the sleuth huffed.

"Oh fine, I picked wrong. And you didn't want to do this to begin with, and I deserved a punishment for having the gall to meddle in the first place," the doctor admitted with a sigh. He'd been subjected to a cruel and unusual punishment, though. "But really, Holmes, were did you find a fangirl?"


	4. Cards

_A.N. First of all, thank you so much for his/her kind review to the anonymous guest who thought my Holmes dating was plausible. Today's prompt comes from Garonne: playing cards. And somehow it turned Mormor..._

Sebastian hated his life. With a passion. This wasn't what he should be doing. Not at all, sirs. But here he was, cheating at cards to make a living for himself like every other third rate conman. And with an oblivious partner to both, remarking more than once with his whiny voice how much of a splendid luck they were having , this was hell.

Only that if it was actual hell he'd have met James once again, and no matter the torments he would have been subjected to, his existence would have perked up anew, he was sure. It always did around the Professor. Moran was sorely tempted to follow Moriarty's lead, as he'd ever done, to the actual depths of fiery hell. (He hoped it was fiery; James would have needed to dry himself off when he arrived after all.)

But like every other ghost on earth, there was unfinished business stopping him from moving on. _Sherlock bloody Holmes. _If Moran rejoined his lover without having dispatched their enemy first, the Professor would have refused to even look at him. And with good cause. That was a trophy Sebastian * needed * to bring to Hell.

But Holmes had escaped him, and escaped him, and finally disappeared from right under his nose – it seemed – like the evil spirit he was. The Colonel had done what he'd been taught to do. Fall back and regroup so you could rethink your strategy.

And since he'd exhausted his funds (not that he's ever been filthy rich to begin with) hunting down the detective across two continents, he was cheating the fat idiots at his club out of their undeserved money. He could have put himself on the market as a hitman, but he didn't want to. He was the Professor's man and no one else's.

And as humiliating as making one's living cheating at cards was, there was a certain mathematical side to it that made Moran desperately nostalgic. He'd always been one for basic cheating, the card-on-your-wrist type...until one long winter evening when the Professor had decided to teach him to count cards.

Sebastian had objected loudly. He wasn't a mathematician, he was a dog too old for new tricks, and other such complaining. But James, when he got in a certain mood wasn't to be deterred. For a month, playing cards – and there'd been a lot of it – had been interrogation time. It had been a nightmare, but Sebastian had survived and become better after it. "See? I can finally do that!" he'd proclaimed enthusiastically at the end of the gruelling course.

He wanted to gloat for managing it now too, but the Professor wasn't here anymore to offer a terse, "Well done, pet." It killed Sebastian bit by bit every time he was reminded of it.

The only – very cold – comfort he had was that at least James was truly dead. He hadn't simply been discarded as useless without a word like the sleuth's companion. (See? The damned detective was a hundred times worse than Moriarty ever was).


	5. Moriarty's christmas card

_A.N. Today's prompt comes from Emma Lynch: Sherlock receives a Christmas card from Moriarty. I'm not sure I didn't tweak the prompt around a bit. I hope you like it. _

When the message arrived, the 23 December 1890, Holmes almost didn't open it. Since a couple of days he'd taken a case that promised to be one of the most complex he'd faced in his whole career, and he had no time for the mail. But there was no sender's address, and these kind of letters usually were relevant to a case. Maybe it could enlighten him.

At first he thought he'd misunderstood, because the Christmas card it contained – very refined – said simply, _Happy Christmas. Hoping we can meet each other in happy circumstances. M. _

Did he know any M. who would bother to do so? And above all, why would they not write their address so he could properly answer them? There wasn't only the card within the envelope, though, and the letter accompanying it did not disappoint him.

_Esteemed Mr. Holmes, I am a honest fan of yours, and not only – though naturally also – through doctor Watson's accounts of your endeavours, unscientific as it lamentably is. It would highly profit from a more rigorous_ _approach to such a fascinating matter, and also benefit from a few well placed notes...but I digress._

Holmes could not help but smile and wonder if it'd be worth it showing the sentence to his best friend the next time he came around, which he undoubtedly soon would.

_What I'd set pen to paper to write about was not, sadly, only my deep seated admiration for your methods and your work. The job of a detective in this century seems way too often to consist in mere legwork, and seeing the sacred principles of logic applied to it in such a beautiful fashion is a balm for the soul in the dark times when one despairs of his fellow men's intelligence. _

It was all outright flattery, of course. Holmes still couldn't help but flush with pleasure at the praise.

_But I've heard of the latest case you've undertaken, and it's with your best interests in mind that I dare say to you: drop it, sir. There are things – there are people – against which logic and syllogisms, precious as they are, will do you no good. _

_You might have, to express myself in the colourful ways I'm not entirely used to but rhetoric suggests, bitten off quite more than you can chew. You might not have realized it yet, and that's no fault of yours, I assure you._

_Still, liking you as I do, giving you a fair warning seemed the polite thing to do. I repeat myself, but... Drop. The. Case. Either you won't solve it – and wouldn't it be better to abandon it then - or you will, and in doing so you'd be making enemies of people you can't hope to win against. Not in the long run. Hoping you'll see my point, still yours M. _

Oh. So it _was _a threatening letter about the case. And someone of higher calibre, culture – and age, according to his handwriting – that he'd yet surmised was involved. It would be a delightful clash of minds.


	6. Doppelganger

_A.N. I forgot to say yesterday – that case Sherlock took about 20 December 1890 dragged on and brought him to cross Moriarty's path on 4 January 1891 as the professor said in Final Problem. Just to tie it in with canon. Today's prompt comes from silvermouse (love your name by the way): __Watson meets Holmes' doppelganger and mistakes him for his friend- the doppelganger is foreign and cannot speak English. The translations to the Italian sentences are between []._

Holmes was following a case concerning the wrongdoings of a criminal gang, and as usual, he'd donned one of his many personas – this time that of a dock worker. So I'd seen him disappear these last days, but the previous night he'd asked me to meet him at one of the docks to then hunt down these devious men.

Instead of going together, I was to join him later so he could prepare a cover story for himself in case today we couldn't catch them and he needed to hold his fake identity some more, as they were – in his words – "more whimsical than any other self-respecting criminal I know".

I, of course, agreed, happy to help in my friend's pursuit of justice as always, and found myself on the docks at the time and place specified by him. I spotted him almost immediately, so I went up to him and queried, "Now where to, Holmes?"

He looked at me like he'd never seen me and replied, "Che?" ["What?"]

I frowned. "I'm awaiting further instructions," I explained, eager. Why was he acting like this?

"Ma che diamine vuoi?" ["But what the heck do you want?"] was the brusque reply.

Then it came to me that we might be observed, and maybe that was the reason he didn't want to break character. But I hadn't noticed even a blink that could clue me in to what he wanted of me then.

Suddenly my friend's baritone inquired, "Watson? Who are you with?" ...but it didn't came from the man in front of me.

I turned, and I saw Holmes. Again. "What?" I blurted out, shocked by his being in two places at the same time. Then I realized, of course. A doppelganger. Perfect, at that. "You have to forgive me..." I started to say to this stranger.

"Ma insomma!" ["But, really!"] the man cut in, clearly annoyed.

"Deve scusare il mio amico," the detective replied smoothly. "L'ha presa per me, dato che ci assomigliamo. E devo pregarla di stare in guardia. C'è altra gente che potrebbe commettere lo stesso errore, ma decisamente non bene intenzionata nei miei riguardi." ["You have to forgive my friend. He took you for me, since we look alike. And I must beg you to watch out for yourself. There are other people who could make the same mistake, but decidedly not well-meaning towards me."]

"Ci mancava anche questa! Che ha fatto, per farsi dei nemici?" the lookalike bit back, apparently exasperated. ["Just what I needed!"sarcastic "What did you do, to gain enemies?"]

"Sono un investigatore," the sleuth declared proudly. ["I'm a detective."]

"Non lo sembra," the man countered with a smirk. ["You don't look like one."]

"Sherlock Holmes, investigatore consulente. Se dovesse succederle qualcosa, dica pure ai suoi amici di venire da me," Holmes stated earnestly. [Sherlock Holmes, detective consultant. If anything should happen to you, tell your friends to go ahead and come to me."]

The doppelganger whistled low. "Quello Sherlock Holmes? Mio cugino mi traduce sempre le storie del dottor Watson!" ["The Sherlock Holmes? My cousin translates all the time for me doctor Watson's stories!"]

"Il mio amico sarà felice di saperlo. È lui l'autore," the detective remarked with a half-smile. ["My friend will be happy to know it. He's the author."]

The doppelganger bowed excessively to me, then shook my hand with fervour. "È un onore, dottore! E non mi lamenterei se mi attaccassero al posto suo, signor Holmes. Anzi, se mai le servisse un sosia, per qualsiasi ragione, chieda di Antonio Verdi – sarei io. Non so ancora l'inglese, ma posso recitare. E adesso lo imparerò, poi!" ["It's a honour, doctor! And I wouldn't complain if I were to be attacked in your stead, Mr. Holmes. Rather, if you ever need a perfect lookalike, for whatever reason, please ask for Antonio Verdi – that'd be me. I don't know English yet, but I can play a part. And now I'll learn it, after all!"]

"Lei è troppo gentile. Lo farò senz'altro," the sleuth remarked. ["You're too kind. I'll certainly do it."] "Come along, Watson! If we lose much more we might find that our quarry has already fled."

I followed, of course. I was confident that he'd explain to me everything that had just happened as soon as he could.


	7. Fairylock

_A.N. Today's prompt comes from Madam'zelleGiry: "It is frightfully difficult to know much about the fairies, and almost the only thing for certain is that there are fairies wherever there are children." ― J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens. Given Conan Doyle's interest in fairies I thank you for the prompt since I believe he'd have liked this._

As a child, Sherlock's hair was absolutely untamable. Mum had to help him each morning to straighten it, and one particular morning, in answer to her little boy's protests when she tugged, she shushed him, revealing, "It's not so bad. I know what it's like. Mine were the same when i was your age. My mum always complained that I had fairylocks. She affirmed that the only way they could get so messy was if the fairies played in and out of them all night long."

It stole Sherlock's breath. How had grandma known? His friends – his only friends – had advised him that their visits needed to stay a secret. Especially from adults. Or they would start to worry about changelings and other silly things (as if the fairies would hurt Sherlock, ever) put him on an iron bed and take other precautions to make sure no one from the seelie court could reach their beloved little friend anymore.

Luckily then Mycroft – who was waiting for them to be finished – started to snicker, telling him that Fairylock would be his new name, Mum told him off, and it seemed that the matter of his dealings witht he supernatural beings went forgotten for the moment. And though Mycroft still teased him when Mum wasn't there, no one confronted him about his nocturnal playing anymore.

Then came that time when Sherlock was ten and they went on holiday, and exploring the area by himself, the young boy met a nixie. The creature sat on a rock in the midst of a river, and played the most beautiful and sad music on his violin that the child had ever heard in his admittedly short life – but Mum had brought him to the opera the past year. "Teach me!" he'd clamoured.

It seemed that wasn't the usual reaction the spirit got, because he queried, "What?" with his voice, similar to clinking bells.

"Teach me. I want to be able to do that too!" Sherlock repeated passionately.

"Lead men, women and children to their watery death?" the nixie had queried, flabbergasted.

The young boy's face had scrunched in uncomprehension, then he'd elaborated, "Be liked. They got me a violin for Christmas, but Mycroft says I murder cats on it, and my own teacher doesn't play half as well as you."

"I should hope so," the water creature had replied haughtily.

"So will you teach me, please?" the child enquired. Everyone said please was a magic word.

The spirit was still puzzling over why the boy hadn't been so enthralled that he'd tried to reach him and drowned in the process like everyone else, when he finally noticed. "Oh. You've been blessed by the seelie queen. I guess I could – as a favour to her."

Needless to say, Sherlock that summer grew quickly better and now 'murdered cats' only to annoy his elder brother.

Once he grew up, though, the fairies were the very first thing he deleted – the impossible products of a too lonely child's overactive imagination. One disjointed sentence from the nixie, however, stayed with him for all his life. "Pour your haert and soul into it when you're playing."


	8. Window cleaning

_A. N. Today's prompt is again from Emma Lynch: Upsetting the window cleaner in Baker Street _

From the diary of Emma T., Mrs. Hudson's maid.

Dear diary, you wouldn't believe what happened today. And you know everything that happened in my service with Mrs. Hudson and her ridiculous tenants, so I know that you're more open minded than most.

Honestly, when I accepted to work for Mrs. Hudson, I had no idea that the life of a maid could be quite so adventurous – that's the word – or so emotionally charged. I thought it was a routinary, even boring work. I've been long since proved wrong. And then today...

I went up to Mr. Holmes' rooms, started straigthening it up a bit – the place is a mess – and he grumbled on the side. Indeed, everything went on as usual. But really, I was doing less than I'd do anywhere else – didn't want to disrupt his 'system' (he still claims there's one underneath it all), you know.

Then I noticed the veritable wreckage that had somehow gotten on the window near his 'experiments' table, an unidentifiable goo of uncertain colour, i sighed deeply and moved to take care of it.

"Leave it," Mr. Holmes said.

I simply tutted back. As if any self respecting maid could do such a thing.

Before I could start my work, he leapt to me, took a hold of my wrists, and repeated forcefully, "I said _leave it_."

"Unhand me right now, please, sir, and let me do my work," I replied sharply, filled with righteous anger. It was a thing to complain, but touching me was unheard of!

He didn't, but sighed, " You don't understand. You don't have the proper gear. If that touches your skin, even accidentally, you might even die. It's a highly toxic compound...that really wasn't meant to get there, but it so happened that it did, so will you just _leave it_? I'll get to it myself later. With proper precautions. I promise!"

I naturally blanched and retired my outstretched hands as if burned. He let me go. "What were you trying to do, Mr. Holmes? Kill some poor, unsuspecting, helpful soul?" I shrieked, reeling with shock.

He snorted at that (he had the gall to!). "I stopped you, didn't I? I didn't mean to murder anyone. No, I was simply experimenting to prove the innocence of a wrongly accused man. Now it's clear that someone else is the murderer. I didn't expect the compound to get there, but that it did clues me in better than if it hadn't."

Why does he always claim these kind of excuses? One can never protest that way. It's so unfair!

I escaped the rooms then, shivering...and I have half a mind to tell Mrs. Hudson to find someone else and search for another job. Not boring might be fine, and I'm used to finding criminal relics everywhere – even in places they have honestly no business to be – but risking my life in a bit of cleaning...shouldn't that be the point where I draw the line? Surely no one can be expected to agree with that...or not?


	9. Church

_A.N. Today's prompt comes from W. Y. Traveller: Church. Not really satisfied with this one but I can't do better. Forgive me._

In that anguished period later known as Hiatus, you'd have seen one Sherlock Holmes – not that he'd have answered if you calle out to him as such – in a church most often than in any other moment of his life (even when he was a child and attending mass with his family was mandatory).

For a long time, you'd have seen one Sebastian Moran slipping in right behind him, and what the shikari might do in a holy place – beyond the heathen aim to tail his chosen prey, that is – would cause even more wonderment if anyone had known who these two quiet gentlemen were. Some secrets are meant to stay as such, though, and the master hunter's prayers do fall in that category.

What might surprise you is that for all his assiduous presence at the church – from prestigious cathedrals to little, out of the way chapels – in the three years of his absence the sleuth did not receive the holy communion even once, not even for Christmas nor Easter.

The reason was simple: his conscience wouldn't allow him. With the heavy sin he shouldered (sin by omission, but that he wasn't allowed to atone for just yet) to do so would be a sacrilege. And there wasn't any priest in the world that could absolve him. Only one person could do as much, in a distant future, and he'd be fully justified if he refused any sort of forgiveness to the detective's troubled soul. Until then, the sleuth did not partake of the eucharist.

He nonetheless prayed a lot, and found solace in the calming, incense laden atmosphere of holy places. While most people pray for their own selfish needs, though, (and Holmes did need fiercely at the time not to be delivered in the hands of his enemies) Holmes' prayers could be summed up in a sentence, "Let my Watson be happy."

_And safe, of course, tell Your angels to keep an eye on him, maybe, that'd be very much appreciated, but above everything else let him be happy. Despite what I've done to him – what I couldn't help but do – let him be happy. Make him delete me, if need be, but don't let him suffer._

Of course, the detective was human still, so, "And let me go back home," slipped in more often than not, but he always hurried to add, "_If _it's Your plan. And if it's not, take pity of my soul, and – in a century or so – let me be reunited with John Hamish Watson anyway, in heaven if not on earth. _Please._"

He'd left his friend behind of his own accord, but it couldn't be in God's intention for such a separation to be eternal. It couldn't. ...Could it? He could only pray with all his soul that it wasn't.


	10. epiphany

_A.N. Today's prompt comes from Garonne: epiphany. _

A few months had gone since Holmes and Watson had started sharing the flat at 221B, Baker Street, when the detective's thoughts one evening took an unusual – for him – and hopeful turn.

The day had seen the both of them pitted against a criminal gang that had sicced a few half-starved, crazed dogs against the too nosy sleuth and his faithful companion. Despite his longer legs, it was Holmes who had been caught by the beasts – at least until a couple of well placed bullets hadn't dispersed his four legged attackers (and the human ones too).

Then Watson had taken care of him, helped him home, bandaged his bites, helped him get as comfortable as possible and was currently relating some humourus anecdote he'd heard at his club to distract him from the pain.

And while he shoudl really be hearing the doctor out, Holmes' mind had instead suddenly wandered off. Because there was someone else, a long time ago, who'd endeavoured to distract him from a dog bite...

And it had dawned on the detective, leaving him mildly astonished – Watson and he were becoming friends too, weren't they? Maybe they could already be considered as such. He would have to consult the doctor about it but – not now.

They were flatmates, of course, and Watson was his doctor, if need be, and they'd become colleagues, even, since Watson had consented to accompany him on cases. But none of these required Watson to keep him entertained so he would feel less pain; not even his hippocratic oath.

No, they were indeed well on their way to becoming friends, and to be honest, it left Holmes both hopeful and mildly terrified. After all, he'd botched things terribly with his other friend. When he'd moved away, Victor had cut all ties with him. Because he'd seen too much, or because he had not seen enough. He hadn't been able to solve the case (he hadn't even realized that there was a case that needed solving) until it was too late to effectively help Victor or anyone else.

He could only hope that things with Watson would never go the same way. He missed having a friend. It was almost ten years that he had acquaintances, clients and enemies only. Almost ten years that people didn't like him. The change would be more than welcome.

If he didn't do anything to make the doctor want to move out (that was, in actuality, more than a little probable). Or if the next criminal that attacked them hadn't too much success against Watson (but Holmes didn't want to give him up as a precious colleague). Or if...he didn't even know, but their friendship would probably end, and disastrously at that. Did he have the heart to give it up in advance? No he didn't.

"Sorry old fellow...I'm afraid my mind wandered a moment," he said with a warm smile.


	11. A-tisket a-tasket

_A.N. Today's prompt comes from Stutley Constable: A-tisket. A-tasket. A green and yellow basket. I've twisted things (as in Kid!lock and kid!John together, and anticipating of a decade the use of the rhyme) but I hope that's forgivable. :-)_

Sherlock didn't want to. Going to the park to play with all his 'friends' (not that he'd call them as such) didn't seem all that fun. But John had insisted, and as always the brunet had eventually cawed in. He could never resist John's gentle cajoling.

So here they were, with Philip (an idiot), Tobias (a peacock), Greg (...decent), Stanley (annoying), Violet, Mary, Sally (girls...ugh) and to cut it short, practicially every other kid in the neighbourood.

When they could have been experimenting on Mycroft's things - and hopefully destroying one or two. Didn't John want to become a doctor? Experimenting would have been better for him.

John *had * experimented with him many times, though, and today the weather was so good it would be really a pity to stay inside, and the other kids could not exactly be Sherlock's friends but they were all John's friends and Sherlock couldn't hog John all to himself (so said Mycroft, who only for that deserved to have his things destroyed).

As a consequence, here at the park they were, all in a stupid circle, singing, "A-tisket. A-tasket. A green and yellow basket," with everything that followed. Then John had left the circle, let his handkerchief fall to the ground and sprinted away. Before anyone else could think to do so, Sherlock had picked it up and given chase. Even with his longer legs, catching John wasn't quick or easy, but Sherlock absolutely loved the thrill of chasing someone – better yet if it was his friend.

When he caught John, panting and exhilarated, he didn't kiss him. Even if by the rules he could have. But kissing was inane, and the rules said he could extract information if he wanted, too, and the raven haired boy would always pick knowledge over everything else. "So? Who do you like, John?" he queried.

"You of course!" John replied with the widest grin.

Sherlock blinked. And then blinked some more. He was pretty certain that the point of the game was to ascertain what girl one liked. Boys liked girls and girls boys right? Could boys even like other boys? Wouldn't someone get angry at John for doing things wrong? He didn't want John to get scolded. Or mocked.

But John was laughing at his friend's befuddled face, and explained, "I mean, I don't think that I like-like anyone – not in the kissing way – just yet. And you're my best friend, so of course I like you best, Sherlock."

"Oh," the other breathed in relief. Nobody would get angry at John for that. The raven haired boy grinned back. "I like you too best of all." Definitely.

"I know," John replied cheekily. "Let's get back. You've caught me,s so you're it next." And John couldn't catch him. It was against the rules. He risked being kissed. Or interrogated. He didn't even know what was worse. Sherlock _hated _playing with everyone.


	12. Mycroft OOC

_A.N. Today's prompt is from mrspencil: ...Mycroft does something completely out of character. Not sure this is adequate for the prompt, but well._

"What are you doing all cooped up in there, Lockie? This is the first snow!"

The bellow, accompanied by a mighty snowball aimed at our window, startled the both of us on a fine December morning. It would have been odd enough if one of the Irregulars had taken such liberties with Holmes, but it was even odder because we knew that voice, and it wasn't Wiggins.

It was none other than Mycroft Holmes, alias Jupiter, who had apparently left his orbit and skipped his work for no other reason than to play in the snow with his younger brother. It was unheard of. Mycroft had never indulged in silly fancies like these since I knew Sherlock, but here he was, making a massive snow angel right in front of our door, like I could ascertain from the window.

My friend had hurried to join his brother, and another man , who, as it looked, accompanied Mycroft – and who looked supremely uncomfortable – moved quickly to say a few, brief words at him. I seemed to recall the stranger from when a case had required us to see Mycroft at Pall Mall as the elder Holmes' secretary, so maybe he had gone to work and left to come play.

I smiled at the scene and was half-tempted to join the brothers in their game, but I had not been invited and intruding is not my style. So I kept observing them. Mycroft was loud, and he clearly was having a lot of fun – despite his build meaning that he lost spectacularly their snowball fight. That didn't seem to bother him, though. But I'm used to read my friend, and I could see that Sherlock was worried.

His brother called him out on it too, exclaiming, "Don't be such a killjoy! There's nothing to worry about, I promise!" They built a couple of snowmen, after their game, then – with the promise of hot cocoa – Mycroft was persuaded to come in.

As soon as he saw me, though, he protested, "I said no doctors!" His follower looked dismayed.

"But the doctor is my flatmate. I can't exactly chase him away from his home. Don't be unreasonable, My," Sherlock replied smoothly.

"Fine," the elder Holmes shrugged. "But I really don't know why everyone makes all that fuss because I bumped my head. It's not like I forgot my name...or yours. And I'll do my homework, I promise. Just...later. It'll still be there won't it?"

Now, of course, the sad and worried expression on Sherlock's face made perfect sense, as well as Mycroft's odd behaviour. "And even if you had, such things often resolve themselves naturally, with a bit of time and peace," I interjected. Maybe not his name, but it seemed clearly that the elder Holmes suffered from some form of partial amnesia. How old did he even believe he was? I didn't dare ask. Sherlock sent my way a look, utterly grateful for the reassurance. "Another cookie, Mycroft? Mrs. Hudson bakes very well," I offered airily.


	13. Unexpected telegraph

_A.N. Today's prompt comes from Garonne: an unexpected telegraph._

It was a morning of December 1896 that Holmes received a telegraph from someone that I'd thought was out of our lives in a permanent fashion (not that she was dead, but you'll understand). Said message read _Widow STOP Hoping you might be interested STOP Come, _followed by an address of another country.

It shocked me somewhat. Since I had started publishing my stories for the Strand, Holmes had gained a not inconsiderable fanbase, and been subjected – much to his dismay – to a number of marriage proposals by perfect strangers, but no one had still been – to my knowledge at least – so curt or forward.

Then again, the the signature on the telegraph read Irene Norton, and that woman (née Adler) wasn't exactly a stranger. At the very least, an acquaintance. And I knew that my friend admired her already, so maybe her confidence wasn't entirely misplaced.

"Watson, stop planning my marriage this instant," Holmes interjected, as usual reading my thoughts.

I flushed in embarrassment at his chastising tone, and replied, "I'm not the one who's planning it. Will you go to see the woman?"

"Obviously."

I have to admit that his matter of fact attitude surprised me. He was willing to give the both of them a chance, then, despite his frequent declarations against sentiment and romantic love. It was momentous. Had my friend held a secret passion for her all this while? And why hadn't he confided in me?

"I already told you, Watson; stop such inane thoughts," the detective cut in my cogitation again, clearly irritated by my behaviour.

"Well, what else am I to deduce from your willingness to meet her, old boy? You refused to do so for all the others," I countered, hoping that he'd see the rationality of my point.

"I did no such thing," my friend stated, lying through his teeth. As if I didn't know the truth. "Your problem, old fellow, is that you've classified wrongly the nature of the message. I shall go to her. I've already taken cases that brought me out of England after all, and I've certainly never refused to meet a client," he added evenly.

I blinked. "A client?" I echoed.

"Isn't it clear as day?" Holmes queried, impatient. "Her husband's death wasn't due to natural causes, and she hopes that I might solve the case for her. She wouldn't mention her marital status otherwise."

"Not clear as day to me," I objected. "So not clear that I stand by my opinion. I'll make a bet with you, Holmes. A pound that you will find her romantically and not professionally interested in you." I felt quite sure, after all. Holmes wanted a case, and he'd seen one where it wasn't.

"I shouldn't accept, but you'd boast that I don't believe I could win, so agreed. I'm sorry about taking your money so easily though."

...Note to self: stop betting. Especially against Holmes.


	14. Puppies

_A.N. Today's prompt is from Catherine Spark : "A pup for each Irregular. This Is a Good Idea…" Find the two shoutouts to other fandoms in here and you get virtual cookies. Partly inspired by yesterday's stoey by silvermouse so we've definitely started a virtuous circle. :D_

It was one lazy December morning, when Watson queried idly, "So? What are we getting Wiggins for Christmas?"

"Money Watson. It's easy, it's practical, he needs it and it'll certainly be welcomed," Holmes replied, suppressing a wince at the memory of gifts to other people in year past that, despite being – or because they were – perfectly in tune with the deduced interests of someone weren't much appreciated.

"That's a good idea, I'm not objecting, and he does the extra money, but just that doesn't it seem a bit...cold? Banal? Wiggins and the other Irregulars might simply be your employees, but they're still children. Children deserve a proper gift on Christmas," the doctor remarked with a raised brow.

"If we continue this conversation, you won't be suggesting for me to dress up as Santa Claus in consideration of their young age, will you, old fellow?" the sleuth asked suspiciously.

Watson laughed heartily at that. "Despite the prowess you demonstrated with your disguises, I won't ask that much of you. Especially because – sad as it is – I don't think many of your Irregulars still believe in him."

"Well, of course they don't. I picked smart kids to work for me," the detective replied smugly. "But you clearly had an idea of your own for Wiggins' gift, so out with it, my good man."

"A puppy!" his friend exclaimed proudly.

"Watson, you do realize that if we get Wiggins a puppy we'll need to get one for each of the Irregulars, don't you?" Holmes inquired with a sigh.

"That'll certainly be feasible, old fellow. I'll take care of it if you like," the doctor assured gaily.

"Are you sure that giving them another mouth to feed is a good idea, Watson?" the detective pointed out.

"Most certainly, Holmes. Because the puppies aren't only meant to be played with. I'd say they're necessary."

"Necessary?" the sleuth echoed, flabbergasted.

"If some criminal should realize they're being tailed, for example. I know that you say how no one ever notices them, but...even a puppy, tiny as his teeth may still be, would be fiercely protective of his master," Watson explained reasonably.

"I suppose you do have a point there, Watson," Holmes admitted with a shrug.

And so ever since that Christmas Wiggins came to report with Lucky, Spence with Ghost (because it had come on Christmas), Saul with Wolf, and – simply put – each Irregular had his or her puppy trailing faithfully behind his chosen master. And if you asked any of the children, the good doctor had a brilliant idea.


	15. At the market

_A.N. Today's prompt is from mrspencil: ...A trip to the market is surprisingly eventful, (please include some type of escaped animal). Dedicated to my dearest friend, beta and Muse Ennui Enigma. Happy birthday dear! I hope each day finds you better than the last. With all my love, hoping it might amuse you a moment (though I'm afraid I might have failed the prompt). _

It was December 1886, and the seasonal goodwill had left my flatmate and friend much wanting. There were no cases, which meant that his overactive brain could find no outlet, and as I'd learned since the start of our cohabitation, this meant that – sooner rather than later – he'd use the contents of his blasted Morocco case.

I really couldn't in good conscience endorse such a behaviour, so when Mrs. Hudson asked of me as a favour to run some errands for her I proposed to Holmes to accompany me. He 'd be out of the house, far from his drugs, and hopefully even only momentarily distracted. That he accepted with no fuss speaks of the level of his boredom.

To keep him amused, I asked him to deduce a few people for me during our stroll and he agreed with a smile. It was something we both loved and would never tire of. He still believed that he could teach me his art, even, and he turned the odd deductions in some sort of lesson for myself. (I'm a willing student, but I don't have much talent, I'm afraid.)

We'd already run a couple of errands for Mrs. Hudson (and one I hadn't remembered at first that I had to do for myself) and we held a few parcels each, when we reached the market. There my bored friend became, sadly, a source of entertainment himself for many of the people presents and not through his sheer brilliance.

A live – and much lively – goose had escaped from the fence that held his brethren, and came running (as much as a goose could, which, as I discovered, is considerably more than I'd have surmised) towards us.

One'd think that the creature would be running for freedom and search for an unimpeded path, but somehow the thing had decided that my friend was a hateful monster which she needed to purge the earth from and attacked him bravely. Impeded by the things he held, Holmes couldn't exactly defend himself (though I'd have paid good money to see him pull a baritsu move on a bird) and I was, I'm afraid too busy laughing at his dismay to be of much help.

So Holmes had no other choice than try to escape its assault, and the situation of the race became the following: first, Holmes, thanks to his long legs; the enraged goose close second, because in the hustle of the market there was not much occasion for my friend ti sprint away; the bird's owner third, breathing heavily and red in the face (he was a portly man which had clearly not been built for speed).

Thank God the man, despite not looking like he could have, reached his property relatively soon enough and corraled it back, freeing my friend from the unwanted attentions. After that, we could run our last errand (which luckily entailed vegetables – I don't know if I could have bought white meat with a straight face after that) and were free to go home.

Despite the incindent, my friend's mood had shifted definitely for the better after our stroll. I couldn't help but be surprised – and, of course, infinitely glad. I didn't ask about his newfound happiness, but as usual, he must have read my wondering on me and replied, "In a corner of the market I noticed a known member of the mafia who didn't look like he was there in search of food. If they're moving, there might be something interesting soon enough."


	16. Fanboys

_A.N. Today's prompt is from __Domina Temporis: Holmes and Watson are out for a stroll when they're swamped by eager young fans_

A december afternoon with exceptionally fine weather had tempted us to take a stroll through Regent's Park. It seemed a simple project. We had not calculated the width of our fanbase in the neighbourhood's kids, or the fact that most of them would be out there playing.

As soon as someone recognized us – and that was remarkably soon – the cry, "The detective! It's Mr. Holmes!" spread like fire on dry grass, and in a moment we were veritably besieged by a good number of very young, very eager faces, each clamouring for something different.

"Where are you going?"

"Are you on a case, Mr. Holmes?"

"Can I have your autographs?"

"When are you going to publish again, doctor?"

And even, "Deduce me!"

That left Holmes not knowing what to do, because he's used to deducing people out loud as a way of punishment when they dare to bother him (the unfortunate souls usually go back deeply upset), but here any show of his talents was likely to redouble the enthusiasm of the kids rather than dispersing them with their metaphorical tails between their legs.

So he maintained a dignified silence – not that interjecting in their racket and being heard would have been easy – and glowered harshly at me, clearly conveying even without words, "Solve this, since it's all your fault!"

I couldn't disagree with that, but I admit that, as for any author, the love of my public, even if a bit overwhelmingly expressed, was something that I was relishing deeply.

Now the discordance had settled in an unanimous cry of, "Tell us a story!" and I found myself not a little embarrassed. For one, my publishers would have killed me for freely regaling spoilers. But I could perhaps still cave in to their insistences, if only that had sealed my mouth.

As much as I love writing, though, I'm not a natural at it, and my editor's help is needed to make my stories readable – understandable at all, I fear. Not to mention the care put into changing details to protect the secrets entrusted to our discretion. It was certainly something that I couldn't do on the spot, not even for all the begging in this world.

So I had to refuse, and I did with the first excuse I could think of, "Please let us through. We are on a case, and we really need to go to get Toby. I promise I'll write this up someday, but now we really have to go. A man's reputation depends from it."

We continued our stroll at a rather more brisk pace for a while (of course they'd immediately let us go), planning a change of itinerary fo the return not to run into our fans again. That'd be awkward.

"On a case, Watson?" Holmes remarked snidely when we were safely out of their hearing range. "It should be obvious that we weren't if they had had two functioning eyes and the ability to use them between all the crowd."

"Well, thank God they're not detectives," I replied placidly.

"You and your scribbles are making our life impossible!" my friend complained loudly.

"No matter you wishes, my dear, I'm not stopping because of today. Doyle is clamouring for another story as much as our little friends, actually," I declared with a half smile.


	17. Religion and cocaine

_A.N. Today's prompt comes from Poseidon - God of the Seas: Watson gets religion in a big way. Also, cocaine. I'm not sure that I got the prompt done (mostly because religion and I are parallel lines and I can't for the life of me write religious people convincingly) and not all twisted around. At least the cocaine is there ;-) A line inspired by a past response of my dear friend KnightFury._

After Holmes' return from his three years long...absence, Watson had somehow changed his religious habits

. He'd never been an atheist – obviously not – and not even an agnostic, he was born and raised in a proper Christian family, thank you very much, but in his adult life the religious practices had often simply slipped from his mind. There were, after all, far more pressing urges than going to mass in his busy (to understate it) life. And the prayers – once again, there was no time. His life was truly hectic. Or he simply forgot. It surely wasn't that big of a sin?

All that changed with Holmes' return to life. Watson had obtained the miracle his soul had cried for even when his lips didn't see the point to, and the least he could do was be properly thankful to our Lord and Saviour for it. So maybe he hadn't been blessed with a literal resurrection, but it was close enough.

There were too many ways' to count for Holmes' solitary wandering to end in a perhaps literal chasm instead than back home to him, as the doctor's overactive imagination was pleased to inform him. But our Lord's angels had protected him when the doctor wasn't there to do it, and led him back home.

So not even missing a mass – or the odd but indeed frequent quiet prayer when he was almost phisycally struck by Holmes' mere, comforting presence by his side – was nothing more than Watson paying his due. Their life was dangerous, and a niggling fear that, if he wasn't properly thankful, that very same miracle could have been taken from him wouldn't let him go.

Holmes had never remarked on his friend's newfound faith, mercifully (his soul really didn't need exposing). The detective was much like Watson had been in his youth, nobody discussed religion, and all was well.

Until the day when – ten days having passed without a case – the sleuth queried, "Are you leaving, old boy?" even if it was perfectly evident that the doctor was. Odd for him to state the obvious in such a way.

"I'm going to mass. Do you want to come?" Watson offered without much hope. That day Holmes hadn't even dressed and his question was the first words he'd uttered that day.

"Not really," the detective had sighed, moving from the settee to go to retrieve his infernal Morocco case. Watson knew what he'd pray for today.

"Can you catch a later one?" the sleuth had...not pleaded, of course not, but it wasn't an even question either.

"And stay to watch you use that? I think not, Holmes. You know what I think of your drugs. I accepted that I can't stop you, but please don't stop me from doing what I want either," Watson had replied, with a defeated sigh of his own.

"Whatifyoucould?" the detective mumbled.

"What?" the doctor had countered, surprised.

"If I don't use cocaine as long as you stay, will you stay for a bit?" Holmes had bargained in a soft voice.

"I...of course, my dear fellow. I'll stay as long as you want me to," Watson had hurriedly agreed. The detective must have felt utterly lonely to cut him that kind of deal for the first time. He simply couldn't abandon him.

"You keep the box," Holmes had offered, removing temptation from his side.

If Watson missed this mass – hell, even if he missed mass at all, today (not that he believed that the deal would last that long – Holmes would end preferring cocaine to his presence surely) – God would without a doubt understand.


	18. Carols and tears

_A.N. Today's prompt comes from Emma Lynch: Carol singers and tears before bedtime. If you think I can manage tears of joy I'm sorry but I must misabuse you. On with the angst fest. _

The Christmas 1893 – after losing in two years the two most important and dear people he had in his life – was the absolute nadir of John Watson's life. The season required people to be happy and spending time with their families. When one has lost his own (because Holmes too wasn't simply a friend – he'd been as much as or more of a brother than Henry ever was) and can't even think to make an effort – and what an herculean effort that'd be...and why would he? Who for? – to be happy, the whole of December feels like it's out to mock and get you.

The doctor used to love the celebration, the parties, most of all the occasion to show to his dear ones how important they were to him. Even Holmes wouldn't reproach him for showing excessive sentiment at Christmas.

Now, if he could, he'd have liked to hibernate and get out of his hiding spot in March, missing all the winterly anniversaries. But he couldn't, so he escaped from too cheery people in his empty home (no, not a home anymore). Even then, he couldn't escape them entirely. Carollers intruded on his unwelcome but needed quiet, startling him out of dark thoughts. (He'd have eagerly joined his dear ones if doing so wasn't such a sin that would stop him from truly rejoining them).

One late mid December night, when he was getting ready for bed (his sleep cycles were all messed up... mostly because he had almost no reason to get up in the morning), another group of carollers – surprisingly well-tuned - makes itself heard, singing "It came upon the midnight clear".

At first the song made him snort, with his appeal for men of strife to stop and hear out the angels. Not bloody likely. Evil never rested. It wasn't like Colonel Moriarty ceased clamouring for his brother's rehabilitation in regard to the season. (Actually, that was one of the reasons Watson got up for. He wouldn't let truth be murdered too.)

But then the song called for the weary to rest and hear the angels too, and it struck a chord inside the doctor's heart. It was like these strangers were singing for him only. He felt so utterly weary. And there was one angel (surely an angel now) – even if not exactly playing a golden harp – whose music Watson would give years of his life to be able to hear even only once again. Whose songs were always a balm for his soul.

Uncharacteristically for him, as the carol faded in the distance he started crying, heavy sobs shaking his frame. He told himself he shouldn't, but there was no one there who'd judge him. There was no one who would care about his tears. And that just made him cry harder and curl up against the too empty world. Sleep couldn't come soon enough. At least he'd see them again. In horrifical nightmares, most likely, faces pale and accusing him for being unable to help, but he'd see them again.


	19. Traditions

_A.N. Today's prompt comes from Wordwielder: Traditions. Sorry if it came late today but my day was all messed up. And I know Vernet wasn't born in Provence but one of his gran-something might have. :-)_

At Christmas, Mycroft would unfailingly send his brother – beyond the customary gift – a little parcel with Holmes' favourite dessert: black nougat with honey and almond.

"Your brother is very thoughtful," I remarked once.

"When it suits him. Actually, I'm very lucky that he's the older one and, as such, the one who has to take care of me and not the reverse," my friend said, with a smile.

"Why?" I queried, taking the bait. Mycroft Holmes didn't look particularly hard to care for.

"You remember how I told you that my family on my mother's side has French roots?" Holmes queried.

I nodded eagerly. I loved each confidence that I could obtain from my usually reserved friend, and wasn't about to forget one.

"Well, there was a gran gran something or other from Provence, and a long line of people with a sweeth tooth after him – perhaps that's hereditary too, you might want to make a survey in your spare time - and so the Occitan tradition of the thirteen Christmas desserts has been passed through my family up to our generation," the detective expounded.

"Thirteen?" I echoed, surprised. That was a lot of sweets.

"Well, I say desserts, but I'm counting fresh and dried fruit, too, not just candy or cakes," Holmes explained with a shrug at my befuddled air. "Mycroft's choice was always to sample each one, for quality control, as he said, while I loved this, and since our mother's death he's made a point to send me some each Christmas. Which is why I'm glad that I'm not the one having to do it for him," my friend added, ending with a boyish grin.

I laughed softly at that.

"Actually, we had an infinite debate about my dessert's choice," my friend revealed. "Among the rest, there's white and black nougat. They traditionally represent good and evil. According to my brother, my partiality for the evil sweet was a sure sign that I was a bad kid and that I'd undoubtedly end my days in ruin. Each time he teased me so, I protested loudly that I was *** **destroying * evil and that was a commendable act."

"Indeed commendable," I agreed, "and a prophetic dessert choice too, one might even say, given your career, my dear fellow. In your interpretation of course, not your brother's."

"Whatever my younger self claimed, I have to admit that my preference had more to do with the honey than with any evil-slaying instinct," my friend said with a fond smile at his own past silliness. "Do you want a taste? You're my ever fiathful companion in ridding the world of its wickedness, after all."

With an offer like that, how could I refuse?


	20. sad

_A.N. Today's prompt comes from Garonne: sad, downcast. Not entirely satisfied with this, but can't do better. I apologize._

Sherlock Holmes hates himself. His moods are mercurial; worse, they're entirely unreasonable. The hold they have on him isn't any less potent, no matter how many times he tells himself so. That's one of the reasons he craves work so strongly, actually. As long as his brain is busy, it seems to have no time for soddy feelings beyond the excitement of the hunt.

Instead today, with no case in sight, he's once again swamped by a black mood. Why is he sad? That throa-clogging feeling requires, for normal people, death, illness or at the very least losing money... something, at any rate. Instead, he can't explain it. He has nothing to say. He's just blue.

Mycroft would tut at him and tell him to grow up and leave his childish sulks behind. That doesn't help any. "Aren't you too old for such an attention-seeking behaviour?" his brother would add, once again missing the mark. He will sulk (well, not sulk, he's not a child) even if there's no one with him. He did so even in Montague street, worse than now if anything, and that was the absolutely loneliest moment of his life.

Now instead he takes over the settee, back to the world, and swallows back the whining that threatens to make its way out if his troath. If he can't say anything worth hearing, he'll stay silent. However long it takes him to drag himself out of this.

Maybe a bit of cocaine would help? But Watson would be so clearly disappointed in him, if he does, and his friend's disapproval is too hard to bear right now, in addition to all the rest. The last thing he wants is to annoy the doctor and pehaps drive him out of the house ("_Permanently. How does he even stand you?" _whispers a cruel voice in the back of his head).

He can't help himself. He can't will himself to stop feeling so ridiculously sad (believe him, he's tried it – hard) . All he can do is curl up and let it – hopefully – pass. He's warned Watson to ignore him when he gets like this. He doesn't mean to inconvenience anyone, after all.

Watson doesn't ignore him. If he can't talk with him, he'll talk at him, reading the newspaper aloud in hope that something will catch his interest, asking what case can he "butcher" next for his readers. When Holmes sends one pointed "not talking today" look his way (he can't trust his voice) the doctor replies airily, "You do know Morse, my dear chap." Oh. What is Watson doing, involving him in a game? ...Actually, that's not a bad idea (but the detective won't thank him).


	21. Candles

_A.N. Today's prompt is from Garonne: candlelight. I have to admit that I researched for this but was left a bit unsure. Wiki informs me that The chemical history of a candle by Mychael Faraday was the start of the Christmas lectures for young people of the Royal Institution, but lists it both for 1848 and 1860 as a title, so I'm assuming the lectures for young people started in 1848 and they did a replay on 1860 because they couldn't think of anything. This would make possible for Mycroft to attend some lectures before Sherlock joined him in 1860. Does it make sense to you? _

It was a cold December morning...and we'd been chased by our cosy home by the byproducts of one of Holmes' experiments. As usual. I could only look ruefully towards our windows, now exhaling toxic fumes, and I couldn't help but think that if Holmes' secondary school teacher knew how to captivate his pupils only a bit less, I might still be ensconced in my favourite armchair,

"The man you're damning to hell isn't some anonymous professor, but Michael Faraday himself," Holmes informed me, interrupting my thoughts. For one who condamned the literary creation of Mr. Poe for this use, he fell into it often enough.

"Were you one of his students then?" I queried, admiring him.

"Not exactly. A friend of my father, who lived in London, offered to welcome Mycroft to allow him to participate to the Royal Institution's Christmas lectures, and while my brother's interests leaned more towards the mathematical than chemistry, he was, I suspect, too polite to refuse. Then in 1860 I accompanied him for the first time. My parents thought that I was still a bit too young for London, but when I threatened to run away to take part in it, they ultimately caved in," my friend exaplained with a satisfied grin.

"Well, you * were * a bit young I pointed out with a gentle smile.

"Six or, as I didn't cease to point out, almost seven. And that was the only Christmas gift I wanted. I still remember these lectures, Watson. The chemical history of a candle. I'd never have guessed that such an ordinary object could hold so many wonderful secrets. I was enthralled by the dancing flames, and I took to the explanations like a sponge. Mr. Faraday showed us a few simple experiments and encouraged us to perform them back at home..." my friend recalled fondly.

"Oh my." I hadn't meant to interrupt, but I'd been terrified by the idea of a six (almost seven) years old Holmes playing with fire. In a literal sense.

"Faraday did say that we should ask for an adult's supervision while experimenting, but I was naturally too excited to wait for someone to have time for me...so I accidentally set the drapes of the sitting room on fire. I got banned from performing any experiments after that. Obviously, that didn't stop me," the detective revealed. He seemed to consider his punishment entirely unwarranted.

"Obviously," I echoed numbly, " thank God that you didn't burn yourself."

"Now don't sound so disheartened, dear chap. You're a man of science too. You should understand my passion for experimentation," Holmes stated. Which was to say I'd get no apology from him.

"I do understand, old boy," I replied with a sigh. _You're forgiven anyway. _


	22. Diamond Jubilee

_A.N. From Domina Temporis: Diamond Jubilee (feel free to crossover with The Great Mouse Detective if so inclined). Not satisfied but I'm not feeling too good. It'll have to do._

It was in 1897 that Sherlock Holmes discovered that he wasn't the only consultant detective in the world...or even at 221B Baker Street. Picking up the newspaper, which had drifted to the floor, he noticed a tiny hat next to it, and wondered if Watson had exhamined a child here – a child with a very little doll – even if such wasn't his custom.

Just then he saw a mouse scurry to get the prop. A fully dressed mouse. He blinked, and when the vision didn't disappear, he picked the small creature up. And the mouse _spoke_, "Sorry but could you unhand me Mr. Holmes? I really have no time to chatter now. The queen's awaiting us."

The human sleuth let it go – well, more like he let it fall from hand in shock – and saw it run away grumbling. Well, that was a weird dream. It had to be a dream, right? Maybe he'd gone to his mind palace and accidentally fallen asleep.

Holmes thought that was the end of it, but the following day – while Watson was at work – the same properly dressed mouse appeared...this time with a more slender companion.

"If you had something to ask from me, I thought I'd oblige you, mr. Holmes. Yesterday our gracious queen was going to award us both for saving her on her Diamond Jubilee, so I couldn't very well make her wait," the same mouse of the day before said, oh-so-reasonably.

"The mice have a queen," Holmes echoed, flabbergasted. Never mind mice talk and dress up like gentlemen.

"We aren't mindless barbarians, of course we have one," the more portly mouse pointed out.

The human sleuth pinched himself. Hard. He wasn't dreaming. "Mice don't live sixty years," he objected, as if that was the main point of debate.

"Not normally, no. That's why this was such a grand anniversary," his furry new friend explained. His companion seemed to grow quite impatient, as if he found the conversation ineffable twaddle.

"Anyway, if you ever find yourself in need of a second opinion on some of your cases, I'd be glad to offer one. Basil, consultant detective. Doctor Dawson and I live here too, so unless I'm off on a case myself I'll be easy to reach," the slender mouse interjected.

"Doctor Dawson?" Holmes echoed numbly.

"Yes. I have the skill set of your own companion. You'd understand how Basil finds me useful," Dawson replied.

"Do you think I'm running a fever?" the human detective queried almost plaintively. He had to be. He was hallucinating, and he hadn't taken any drugs.

"I don't think so, no," Dawson stated after eyeing him critically. Either his subconscious refused to admit to the fever ravaging him (where was Watson when he needed him?) or the drugs had finally scrambled his brain as Watson always said they would and he was now a bedlamite. He wasn't going to touch the blasted things anymore, he swore. Hopefully he could heal. The other prospect was too ominous to contemplate.


	23. Singing

_A.N. Today's prompt is from TemporarilyAbaft - Singing in 221B. Good, bad, ugly?_

Doctor Watson's voice is always a pleasure to hear. And not only because he regularly sings the detective's praises (though that's nice, of course...more than nice, if he's honest). The doctor is even in the face of danger and mayhem, never cruel no matter how annoyed he is (how Holmes admires and – just the tiniest bit – envies the inherent goodness of his companion), fond of the detective even in exhasperation (another thing Watson alone holds the secret to). His voicem naturally, reflects all that.

Add to that the warm timbre and other qualities Holmes as musician could expound if only he found a willing ear, and it's no surprise that the sleuth likes it that much. But spending time and effort analyzing his friend's voice, if he revealed that, would make him look odder than he already is, and Watson – the only one who tolerates all his eccentricities somehow – is likely to turn red and be uncomfortable with the attention if Holmes breached the subject with him.

So "Watson's voice – a monography" stays inside the detective's brain. He hasn't yet managed to persuade himself that it's useless and he should get rid of it. As a scientifical work though, that's still woefully incomplete. It misses entirely the part on the doctor's singing, as – for some reason – the most Watso will do is some soft humming, very pleasant indeed, but not any outright singing. Not even after the opera, when many men will brazenly butcher an aria or two.

Now, of course, Holmes is a man on a mission: hear his flatmate singing. A case has yet to require as much (at most, they call for some robust yelling) but Christmas is approaching...which means the sleuth needs to broaden his musical repertoire.

Sure enough, on Christmas Eve, the doctor requests some carols from him. "Of course, dear chap. As long as you agree to sing along them," the detective replies, eager to finally have his way.

"Ah...no...I wouldn't want to ruin your beautiful playing," Watson objects unreasonably.

"Nonsense, Doctor, you won't," Holmes replies. He has the evidence of the beauty of his friend's voice, but he'd rather keep the monography to himself still. "And they are not instrumental pieces, after all." The sleuth frowns.

After a bit more of cajoling (errrr...reasoning) Watson caves in. "Fine, but don't mock me."

There's nothing to mock in his friend's singing. It's just beautiful, like Holmes had always assumed it would be. Only that the doctor sings with such sentiment, that he manages to move himself, and ends one of the more touching carols with eyes shining.

Silly Watson. The detective might scorn useless sentiment as a rule, but he's certainly not about to scold his friend for letting his feelings be swayed by the music. That would be exceedingly hypocritical of him. Hasn't Watson realized yet that the usually cold detective, even though he might not let himself cry, reveals his soul bare each time he takes bow to the violin too?


	24. Paper chains

_A.N. Today's prompt is from Emma Lynch: Paper chains. Enjoy!_

Every Christmas it was the same debate. The good doctor would have wished for a full wealth of seasonal decorations, while the detective objected that such things were pointless and distracting. Not to mention a hazard, given their hectic life. Mistletoe was poisonous, and other props were met with similar rejections.

In the end, they had compromised. Paper chains. Oh, the sleuth could have protested against them too – it seemed to him that the reason they'd be one of the worst ideas possible should be only too obvious – but he didn't. Watson's festive spirit should receive some concessions. These were, after all, their shared rooms.

He wasn't alone anymore like in Montague Street – and to be honest, Holmes was so very grateful for that. A few paper chains were a good, if not perfect compromise.

And yet, it was impossible for Holmes to refrain from offering his critiques to his friend's endeavour. "Each snowflake is an unique individual, my dear; and you're making a series of perfectly identical ones," he remarked.

"We aren't aiming for scientifical accuracy, Holmes; these are decorations, not educational props," the doctor replied with a sigh.

The chains were made, hung all around the room with many smiles from the doctor...and then of course the twenty of December it happened what the detective had decided not to warn his friend against, as any people with a functioning brain could have foretold such a thing would happen. The paper chains accidentally caught fire and Holmes – too intent on his current experiment – didn't even notice until they were all ash on the floor.

When he was back and found this, the doctor didn't even scold his flatmate. He shook his head, sighed...and set out to make more paper chains. Watson was nothing if not stubborn, and apparently one disaster wasn't enough to convince him that the idea wasn't al that wise.

After he was done creating them, he brought the chains and scissors over to his flatmate, and said with a smile, "I thought that you might enjoy adding some little individual touches to the snowflakes. Smoothing an angle here, one more cut there...I have even more paper and glue if you want to give some of them an extra feature instead. Only if you want to, of course."

Holmes blinked in surprise, but agreed promptly and gleefully set to work. Watson had a feeling that these paper chains wouldn't burrn down – not entirely at least.


	25. Retirement

_A. N. Today's prompt comes from TemporarilyAbaft - Christmas during the retirement years. I probably completely sidetracked the prompt, and OOC!Holmes galore, but forgive me. Merry Christmas!_

Sherlock Holmes will never cease to amaze me.

Once I had retired from profession myself, a bit later than him, never having remarried after my poor Mary and hence being a lonely man, Holmes offered that I called 'my' room (the one I used when visiting him in Sussex) mine in a more permanent sense and for us to share lodgings again. As fascinating as he found his bees, I suspect that he missed a company he liked (he didn't seem to bond well with the other villagers) and agreed promptly, all too glad. It wasn't the proposal with surprised me particularly though (not after how eager he'd been to resume our cohabitation in 1894).

It was Christmas 1921, with the both of us well nearing seventy. And yet that day I was once again astounded, and for once not by my friend's brilliance. We'd spent a quiet morning together, perfectly content in each other's company, when we decided it was time to open our presents (the time we were kids eager for it was so long past sometimes it looked like a wonderful dream).

Before I could open mine, Holmes cleared his troath and said, looking mildly uncomfortable but determined to press on, "I know, Watson, that out of the both of us you most easily gave words to feelings, and I to facts. I guess that's why I never told you in so many words – well, the one time I did try – and you even recorded it – it was so roundabout what I was truly talking about. But you deserve to hear it from me, and since it's forty years that I received the most precious gift of all, the privilege of your trust and friendship, I wanted to let you know how truly thankful I am for it."

I didn't have words to reply at first, emotion making a lump in my throat that wouldn't let me get word past it. I knew he appreciated my company, of course, but I'd never have expected him to be vocal about it in such a way. Hell, I never even expected for him to notice that forty years were past since that momentous (for me and – it seemed – for him too) 1881. My silence clearly made him nervous though.

"Oh no I blabbered didn't I? I told you, I don't have your way with words, Watson," he added with a grimace.

"No, no you didn't. I'm touched, really. And of course I'm thankful – so very thankful for your friendship too. If someone out of the both of us was privileged, it was clearly me," I reassured earnestly, smiling at him. "But I never thought I'd see the day you recognized me a mastery over words – are you sure to be well, Holmes?" I joked.

"I only protested because I felt that my job was better suited for a scientifical rather than a literary approach, but I do enjoy your talent, my dear. It didn't seem right to encourage you at the time, though," he confessed, laughing weakly.

Perhaps not at the time, but now he wanted to, if the luxurious pen with my initials engraved in silver and the leather notebook was anything to go by. I had gotten him, much more egoistically (because I'd take great pleasure from the end result too), a few sheets of music that I'd noticed him eyeing with interest. Nothing big, but I didn't know that we'd be celebrating our anniversary, so to speak.

Holmes had to be in a nostalgic mood, because after the gifts were out of the way, he said softly, "Would you read me a bit of 'A study in scarlet', old boy?" "

As soon as I find my glasses, with pleasure. Help me find them, please?" I agreed, starting to hunt for them. I swear that the damn things are alive because they up and leave on their own all the time. And I never find them anywhere reasonable either.

_P.S. That time Holmes was roundabout about it was in Naval Treaty because it's my firm headcanon that he wasn't waxing lyrical about roses but talking about their friendship. _


	26. Irregulars - Failed prompt

_A. N. Today's prompt is from Stutley Constable: Where are all the Irregulars? I feel like I sidestepped the prompt neatly rather than answering it, but I couldn't manage one decent idea for it, sorry. And sorry about being so late too, but I kept postponing in hope I would have had one brilliant idea._

It was December 1895 when the Waltons' case popped up. It was a vicious gang, which specialised in kidnappings, and had murdered more than once its victims if their demands weren't met. Finally, the inspector (Athelney Jones, if anyone is interested) caved in to Necessity and decided wisely to consult Sherlock Holmes.

This isn't the tale of how the true identities and the hideouts of the Waltons were brilliantly discovered, or of how these devious men were adventurously apprehended. That's for doctor Watson to write up should he ever feel inspired to do so.

Our little anecdote starts shortly after Holmes had taken that case. When concentrated on an investigation, normal things will be forgotten by the detective. Hell, he will forget to see to his own basic needs too. But the doctor's usual rhytms were apparently etched deeper into the sleuth's mind than he himself should have expected.

So when the doctor was late, Holmes immediately noticed. When that lateness stretched and stretched, he wondered. Watson had probably just been called for an emergency somewhere, and was now doing his own job like the detective himself should have been doing. But what if the doctor had slipped on a patch of ice and broken a leg? Oh God, what if the Waltons had been informed that he was on their tracks and taken Watson in retaliation? Would they have killed him outright?

For his own peace of mind, there was only one thing to do. Call the Irregulars and send all of them on the traces of the absent doctor. At the very least he'd know that his friend wasn't lying in the gutter somewhere.

Watson was back at 11:30 PM, on his own, perfectly safe and sound. "I met Stamford again, and he's married now, so he literally dragged me to meet his wife. And then the both of them insisted for me to stay at dinner with them. I tried to tell them that we were on a case, and you might have a breakthrough at any moment, and need my help, but they wouldn't hear me out. Sorry," he explained.

"No breakthrough yet," Holmes replied, hiding both his relief and annoyance and leaving rather abruptly, "I need to see Wiggins." Of course he did. He had to call them all back.

"And not a word about this. Especially in doctor Watson's presence," the sleuth pointed out to his young lieutenant.

Wiggins offered him a too wide grin. "Sure Mr. Holmes. Good the doc is fine." What he would have liked to add – what any of the boys would have – if only he hadn't just been forbidden to was, "It's so sweet anyway how you fret about each other."


	27. Nightmares

_A.N. Today's prompt comes from cjnwriter: Nightmares._

Anyone has nightmares. The detective and his companion too, of course. There is a difference, though, between them: while the sleuth's bad dreams stem from his own overactive imagination, the doctor's nightmares are real. Pardon. I should have said _were_ real. Watson has been through more than enough to trouble anyone's subconscious, after all.

Back in 1881, of course, it was the war that he hadn't still entirely left behind. Bad nights meant being back to the absolute disaster that was Maiwand, or even before, and seeing all the young, hopeful faces he'd been unable to save.

Often, he'd be unable to help other people – friends – and have their deaths on his conscience, too. Sometimes, during a nightmare, he'll have the feeling that he shouldn't be there, and someone would yell at him to "Quit it with these enteric fever Dupin-like delusions, goddamn, Watson!".

When he discovered the story of the man who dreamed to be a butterfly and in the end wasn't sure which of the two was the reality and which the night-time illusion, it terrifies him. He'd never doubted – never considered – he _has _met Holmes, hasn't he?

He must have, because fifteen years later, his nightmares have changed. They could as well come with a time stamp now. 1893. he'd get home, and find it empty, and not because his detective is out tracking down some criminal or another. Dust would be heartbreakingly eloquent. This is not Holmes' place anymore, which means it's not Watson's place, either. But Mary is gone, he never forgets that, and he feels so entirely adrift. It's horrible. If he's a butterfly...errrr, if Holmes' return is the dream, he'd very much like to never wake up.

Holmes' bad dreams are much more varied in the details, rarely presenting themselves identically twice, but under all that, the theme is rather monotonous. He loses Watson. And it's all his fault. Because he's dragged him into this (the doctor didn't even want to come in the first place). Because he's not been quick enough. Because he hasn't seen enough (Mycroft surely would have).

Sometimes, if the sleuth's subconscious is feeling somewhat merciful, Watson won't die. Holmes will simply do something that drives his companion away forever. The good doctor will storm away, declaring hotly his despise and utter disgust for the detective, and the door will slam behind him with an air of finality. Thank God the detective is a rational being, or he'd fear these to be premonitory dreams.

...So maybe the nightmares of 221B's inhabitants aren't that different after all.


	28. Broken pipe

_A.N. Today's prompt comes from KnightFury: A ruptured pipe causes a great many problems. Probably not good, sorry my dear. Sorry everyone._

Holmes had never cared overly much (or at all, to be completely honest ) for the working details of his home. Where the gas and water pipes were located, where they lead, or where were the switches to stop them from carrying on their job, didn't have space in his brain attic. After all, what were Mrs. Hudson and specialised workers for?

That's why he was utterly surprised discovering that water pieps ran through the sitting room too. Which he did when one had the bad taste to get broken. He'd been out in search of clues about a case, and was now looking forward to smoking a couple of pipes (they should be enough) trying to figure it all out. Coming home to a lake wasn't in his plans.

He immediately bellowed for Mrs. Hudson, while attempting without much fruit to rescue his things. Earlier in the day, he had to consult his criminal index. It had taken him a bit to find the correct page, and most of the others had rained around him, falling to the floor. (Watson always compared him to a small scale tornado.)

He could only hope that said pages were now salvageable and after being dried would be once again readable. It had taken him time and effort to create that index. It was true that most of the records he remembered. But he couldn't be sure how much precious information had just been lost because of an ordinary, faulty pipe.

Not to mention his latest case-related experiment. It was three days that he was running it – since he'd accepted this particular job – and now it was ruined. It wasn't meant to be set in a eighty percent humidity environment.

Mrs. Hudson came, surveyed the disaster, and before calling for help herself – or getting to work – she tutted disapprovingly. "I told you that all these explosions last week would not bring anything good. Controlled, indeed. They still ruined my poor old pipes," she remarked acidly.

It was unfair. They couldn't blame him for this...could they? Then again, why had the pipe ruptured in the sitting room – the experiments' room – and not, more commonly, in the bathroom or the kitchen? Would Watson get angry at him for this too? (The damp would make all his friend's aches flare. Was this really his fault? He hated feeling guilty.)

Watson didn't get angry at anyone. He said, "Thank God that it was the water pipe and not the gas one. We didn't need an utterly uncontrolled explosion in the room. You could have gotten seriously hurt." (Mmmm...sensible. Maybe someone should be called to check the state of these pipes too.)


	29. Mummers

_A.N. Today's prompt comes from Madam'zelleGiry: Watson shows the Irregulars a favorite tradition he enjoyed as a child._

For once, it was Watson's plan everyone went along with. The good doctor had positively loved the mummers who would come round his house, usually the twenty one of December (the performers toured their little city's homes and they ended up following the same route every year). He'd loved them so much, in fact, that it influenced his career choice since a young age – being the hero was well and good, but being the doctor meant being powerful.

When he'd asked Wiggins if the boy was looking forward to it too, and received an uncomprehending "What?", Watson's heart had broken a lttle for him. Apparently, not only Wiggins, but none of the Irregulars had ever been treated to a mummers' show. The performers went from house to house, in Watson's memory, but evidently if they were in London too they steered clear from the poorer neighbourhoods.

Of course such a blatant injustice couldn't be allowed to continue. So Watson had roped Holmes in his project, Holmes had involved Hopkins – who was only too happy to be of service – and now all the Irregulars were heaped into Baker Street's sitting room, eagerly waiting for their very first mummers' show.

Even Mycroft had been persuaded to take the role of Father Christmas, who delivered the prologue and introduced the characters. The elder Holmes certainly made for an imposing one. Sherlock was a dashing if hot-headed Prince George, alias the Hero, and Hopkins managed not to giggle as he'd done during the rehearsals in his first actual criminal role as Slasher, the villain.

Slasher fell to his death gracefully too,and Prince George started to panic because he'd only meant to teach a lesson, not murder anyone, goodness. Luckily then arrived Watson, as himself...errrr, the Wandering Doctor. He reassured the Prince, made the supposed dead body swallow something, and here Slasher was, right as rain and apologizing for the offense that started the fight in the first place.

Their audience clapped and cheered enthusiastically, and the actors bowed. Then young Timmy queried, "Is that how Mr. Holmes came back to life? Did you finally find him and give him that, doctor?"

"Don't be silly Tim. If the doctor could do that he'd be richer than the queen, not sharing rooms with anyone," Spence replied before Watson could.

Holmes rang for Mrs. Hudson to bring up hot cocoa and cookies. That should divert the conversation nicely. (And save him from having to apologise to Watson again – it'd be most embarrassing with all these people present.)


	30. Absent friends

_A.N. Today's prompt is from mrspencil (thank you for everything my dear!): ...absent friends._

He thought it would be easy. He's never been more idiotic. Yet, Holmes had evidence for that – or so he believed. Victor. When Victor had gone, fleeing from his shame, the detective had missed him. Of course he had.

There had been many times when he'd been excited about something, wanting to share it, and ultimately refrained because no one would have cared to hear him. Many times when he'd heard something about one of Victor's hobbies and wondered if Victor had heard of it, too. Hell, sometimes even the mentions of fly-paper made him think of his friend.

These stray thoughts about his old companion didn't come often though, even at the start, and it was easy to push them back, especially if he had something else needing his focus. Which was why he'd been persuaded that leaving Watson behind would not put a strain on his soul. He had, after all, Moran to distract himself from missing anyone. He was wrong.

Maybe the difference was because he had not enjoyed ten years of confidence with Victor prior to losing him. Maybe he'd grown less resilient in time (he might not be, but he felt considerably older now – and way more weary). But Watson wasn't an odd stray thought every couple of weeks or so.

He was a man-sized phantom limb, a wound on the very texture of three dimensional space because what should be full of his friend was suddenly, achingly empty. An integral part of his life now entirely unreachable.

Holmes had never been so silly as to mock-write to Victor. Since Reichenbach, he'd written – and burned, it wouldn't do to involve Watson any deeper in this mess – letters to Watson at least twice a week, but usually much more often.

Months and years gone by could not make him miss his friend any less. The situation chronicized without losing any of his potency, unlike illnesses were wont to do. In the meantime, Watson had certainly already started moving on from his apparent loss.

If he wasn't forgiven for his deceit – if Watson decided that there was no place for treacherous detectives anymore (and that was probable, _reasonable _even) – what was he supposed to do? Could he really get used to live like this?


	31. Eve

_A.N. The last prompt comes from Hades Lord of the dead (I have no words to say how grateful I am to you dear!): Eve. Kinda sequel from yesterday's. Happy new Year everyone! :D_

If you asked him whether he could ever feel giddy and guilty in quick turns, ten years ago or so, Holmes would have replied with a resounding no. Mostly because he didn't believe in feeling guilty at the time – if you're going to feel like that about it, don't do the thing in the first place. But it's the eve of Watson's return to live at Baker Street, and that is exactly how he feels.

Giddy, of course. It isn't anything so simple as resuming flatsharing with a dear friend. It feels more like the world is just about to right itself after years of being slightly tilted on its axis - off center. Six years, not three, at that. The sleuth was glad for the happiness Watson found in his marriage, but couldn't help but wish often that each time he called upon his friend about a case he didn't feel so much like a potentiallly unwelcome intruder on their domestic bliss.

Which is why he feels mildly guilty about his present happiness. Watson would certainly rather have his wife still, and get angry at him for being so elated, if not – of course not – about the death at the very least about the direct consequence. But Mary is gone, and there is no reason for the both of them to be miserably lonely in two empty homes.

No, Watson is coming back, and it's enough for thr detective to smile beatifically at the maid that Mrs. Hudson has sent on a cleaning spree (the good woman is excited about having the doctor back too, in her own way)...which means that the maid is very happy about the doctor's arrival too, because she suspects Mr. Holmes might be coming down with something from the lack of grumbling on his part.

The sleuth knows that he won't sleep a wink tonight. He's too excited – like a child on Christmas eve, almost, he chides himself (not that the scolding will calm him down). Then again, Watson's presence is the gift he's ached so long for, so how could he not be?

He wonders if his friend is even half as glad for this. He hopes to God that the doctor will never discover the so generous buyer of his practice is Holmes' cousin, or he'll be offended by the trick. But Holmes needs his Watson home. His doctor. His conductor of light. Above all, his friend. And tomorrow he'll have him. Unable to contain his feelings any longer, he turns to the violin.


End file.
